


Everything Remains

by AccursedSpatula



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-08-24
Updated: 2011-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-23 01:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/244564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AccursedSpatula/pseuds/AccursedSpatula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt. Hawke abruptly and unexpectedly hands Fenris over to Danarius, despite being in a relationship with him. Danarius extracts revenge by cutting the lyrium from Fenris's body. Anders finds him in Tevinter after the events of Kirkwall, determined to repair what he can of Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Posting this simultaneously on LJ as well, on the kinkmeme there.

Fenris had always hated flies.

This one had settled on his nose, crawling about, heading briefly toward his eye and then back down his cheekbone. He could feel the tiny feet skimming across his skin, hear the incessant buzz, see the small insect’s feelers and mouth moving, and all of this should have disgusted him. In years prior, he would have swatted the fly, and relished the moment if he had killed it.

Now the little creature was walking all over him, and he didn’t care.

Fenris took another raggedy breath, startling the fly, which flew away and landed on the half-dead slave next to him. The poor man was slumped over, barely breathing, uttering a moan from time to time. Fenris sat close to the man, so that he was still able to lie down in the heat without pulling their shackles too tight.

The cobblestones of the street were uneven and hard, and Fenris had been sitting there since dawn, his knees drawn slightly to his chest, centered in a group of weakened, dying slaves kept in a pen, some elderly, some sickly, some injured. He appeared to be the only somewhat healthy one in the group, though the ugly, thick, purple scars on his body led one to believe otherwise.

They would sit there on the street, secured in the pen like animals, until the following morning, at which point whoever was left alive would be marched down to the mines, never to see sunlight again. Fenris was too tired for emotions, too utterly exhausted to care about his plight. There was no energy left for sorrow or anguish or despair—he barely had enough strength to keep breathing and occasionally blinking.

The man next to him coughed, and from the corner of his eye Fenris saw blood on the man’s mouth. He didn’t have long—he probably wouldn’t make it to the next morning, which was, in Fenris’s mind, a blessing for him.

He stared listlessly out onto the street, feeling the fly return to him, crawling on one of the scars littering his arm, using it like a tiny road. He made no motion to shake it off.

The handler in charge made periodic checks to all of the slaves, making sure to drag the dead ones out before they started to rot in the hot sun, but mostly he left the decrepit group to their own devices. They were at the edge of the small district of pens, most of them holding fresh, healthy specimens—misfortunate beings from Ferelden or the Free Marches. Fenris had been to this district on various occasions, with Danarius, who had trusted his bodyguard’s judgment on recruiting slaves intended to be guards.

He had never thought he’d be in one.

The little fly continued to hop about his arm, the sensation causing a rippling, almost painful sensation in his bicep as he unwillingly flinched. Still, he didn’t brush it off.

Fenris swallowed, thickly, and settled his hands around his ankles. He was exhausted and thirsty, both conditions a nagging whine in the back of his head, but his thoughts were too clouded for him to care. The scars, the pen, the fly—none of it mattered.

There was commotion outside his pen. Fenris cast a half-hearted glance in that direction. A man was arguing with the quaestor, pointing frantically in the pen where Fenris sat. “I want that one—” he insisted, before being cut off by a wave of a hand from the black-robed man.

“These slaves are destined for the mines. You don’t want any of them, let me assure you. Over here we have a lovely—”

“No, I want _that_ one.”

“He’s catatonic. Worthless. Won’t last a week.” The sound of scuffling shoes followed as the quaestor tried to lead the other man to an adjoining pen. “Here we have a lovely young girl—”

“No.”

“If you would prefer a male, I have many others I can show you—”

There was a frustrated, almost desperate whine. “I…you don’t understand. I need _that_ slave.” The voice was vaguely familiar to Fenris, conjuring up foggy memories, ones he couldn’t place and didn’t have the dedication to dwell on.

The quaestor gave a tired sigh. “He’s not fit for sale.”

Frantic jingling followed. “I’ll…I’ll give you…six sovereigns for him.” The quaestor must have refused his offer, because there was more nervous whining. “You said he’ll be dead in a week—he’s worthless to you. You can walk away with six sovereigns or you can keep a worthless slave.”

There was silence as the quaestor considered this. “He’s yours.” There was the soft plink-plink of coins, and then the quaestor called over two handlers to open the pen. Fenris was vaguely aware of the gate being pulled open, of a man approaching him, clad in dark blue, nearly black robes, but he did not look up.

The man knelt, casting Fenris in shadow. A hand reached out, slowly, tentatively, to touch him, calloused fingertips gently stroking his cheek. “F-Fenris?” A year ago, Fenris would have snapped this man in two merely for touching him. Now he let himself be worked over, pliant as this man ran his index finger gingerly down Fenris’s jaw, stopping at the twisted, nasty looking scars on his chin. Fenris kept his eyes blankly fixated on the ground.

“Maker, Fenris,” the man said, his voice utterly pathetic, drenched in sorrow. “I’m so sorry.”

The man was briefly shoved aside so that the shackles around Fenris’s wrists and ankles could be unlocked, the shackles giving way to reveal ugly red sores and cuts on the elf’s limbs. They stung as the air hit them, and Fenris drew once more into a ball as his limbs were released.

“He’s all yours,” one of the handlers said.

“Come on, Fenris,” the man said. “Let’s get you up.” Tenderly he reached for the elf’s bony arm, using it to pull the emaciated figure to his feet. He looped Fenris’s arms around his shoulders, crouching down to help Fenris up, the elf’s legs stiff and unsteady.

For the first time, Fenris decided to glance upon his benefactor. Blond hair, gray stubble, hollowed out cheeks, red-rimmed, anguished brown eyes—it was Anders. The man he had regarded with such disdain, such abhorrence, was now nearly in tears at his state, leading him gently away from what would have been certain death.

Suddenly he was ashamed, angry at the cruel twist of fate that had sent Anders— _Anders_ —of all people to aid him. There was only one person in this world who Fenris could think of as a more inappropriate choice, and if it had been him, he would have fought tooth and nail until he had exhausted the meager bit of energy keeping him alive. He tried to pull away from Anders, as the man half-carried, half-dragged him from the pen, silently screaming that he wanted to stay here, he wanted to be left to die.

“Fenris!” Anders pleaded, guiding him. The mage was scrawny, even more so now, and years ago Fenris would have easily overpowered him. Now, it was no contest. Anders easily kept his grasp on the squirming elf and led him from the pen, Fenris shaking and flailing, trying to get back.

“Fenris, no,” he whispered. “I can’t let you.”

Fenris slumped against Anders, using his free arm to cling to the mage’s silly feather-covered coat, almost too weak to support himself. He looked up at Anders, bleary eyed, tormented and distressed, asking the mage, without words, to let him die with a shred of pride.

“I’m sorry, Fenris,” Anders said, his own eyes bloodshot and miserable. He refused to let the elf go back to the pen, instead starting to lead him down the street. Fenris willed his legs to move, step by step, each one shaky, and the elf crumpled after a dozen. Anders refused to give up, however, and instead slung Fenris’s narrow frame onto his back, each hand looped under one of Fenris’s bony knees.

“Just hold onto my shoulders. It’s not far.”

Fenris slumped against him, his fingers weakly gripping Anders’s shoulders. He wanted to cry, to throw a fit at this whole situation, to simply let his anger at fate, at Tevinter, at Danarius, at the Maker or whatever lay out there, consume him, but he found himself too devoid to care, and so he resigned himself to lay his head against the feathers on Anders’s coat and let the mage do as he pleased.

***

 

Fenris had begun to drift off, lulled into sleeping by the rhythmic motions of Anders’s footsteps and the softness of his jacket, when he found himself being deposited onto the ground, his bare feet touching cobblestones. Anders was quick to grab him, making sure the elf did not fall. Supported by the mage, Fenris glanced around at their surroundings. A modest house, nothing extravagant like Danarius’s estate, but more than enough to live comfortably in. They were on the portico, which was framed by two black pillars, Anders unlocking the massive oak door with his free hand before pushing it open to reveal the front hall, and awkwardly maneuvering them inside.

He shut the door behind him, carrying Fenris upstairs, being patient with the elf on the staircase and tenderly carrying him up, step by step, until he reached the top. Together they stumbled into Anders’s bedchamber, where Anders set him on the master bed, Fenris now breathing unevenly, nervous and confused.

Ander stood before him, placing his index finger below Fenris’s chin and cautiously tilting Fenris’s face up, forcing wide, glassy green eyes to meet his. “Do you remember me, Fenris?” he asked, his voice small and shaky.

“Anders,” Fenris said, his voice monotone.

The mage smiled sadly. “Good. That’s a start.”

Fenris returned his gaze to the floor, fisting Anders’s bedspread in his hands. It was green, and soft, soothing to his calloused palms.

“Maker, Fenris,” Anders breathed in horror. “What happened to you?”

Fenris slid his gaze away from the mage, unable to continue looking him in the eye. “It doesn’t matter,” he rasped

“Andraste’s tits,” Anders cursed under his breath, rising and turning to pour a mug of water from a pitcher set on a table. “Did they even bother to give you anything to drink?” He held the mug out to him. When Fenris made no move to take it, he cursed again under his breath and physically wrapped Fenris’s hand around it.

Fenris held the mug, unwilling to simply drop it, but he didn’t drink.

“Fenris, you need to drink that,” Anders insisted, worry and frustration evident in his tone.

“Why?”

“Why?” Anders seemed baffled. “What do you mean, ‘why?’ You’re badly injured, far too thin by half, and you’re dehydrated. You need to drink or you’ll die.”

Looking up just long enough to meet the mage’s gaze, Fenris said, “I know.”

Anders gritted his teeth. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?” He was upset, and Fenris could clearly see his frustration behind a thin veil of composure.

Fenris still, however, remained silent.

“I didn’t go through all the trouble to find you just to have you die like this,” Anders snapped. He grabbed Fenris’s hand, wrapped around the mug, and lifted it by the wrist toward Fenris’s chin. “Drink.” It was less of a request, more of an order.

The elf looked sullenly up at him, watching Anders’s authority shatter for a moment. He quickly regained his composure, towering over the wraith-like elf. “Drink it, or, Maker help me, I’ll hold you down and force you to. I’m not going to sit here and watch you die.” His voice was sincere, but not threatening—just stern.

With shaky hands, Fenris raised the mug the last bit to his parched lips. The water was good, so good, almost too good, and the mug was empty before he knew it. He strained to get the last drops out, actually licking the edge before whimpering uncontrollably when Anders pulled it away.

“I’ll get you more,” Anders said, as if to reassure him. Fenris felt twisted inside. Survival had taken over, and the moment that water hit his chapped lips he had realized just how parched he was. His mind was firm in its conviction to die, but his body was just as firm in attempting to keep living.

Fenris watched Anders with needy, scrutinizing eyes as the mage filled the mug again before passing it back. He drained a second mug, feeling guilty for each sip, and Anders held it for a minute, a weak smile playing on his face.

“That’s better,” he said, reaching for the pitcher. He filled the mug once more and handed it to the elf, who accepted the water with significantly steadier hands, quickly draining the mug once more. “If I brought you some food, would you eat it?” Anders asked, watching the elf lick the last drops once more from the mug.

Fenris gave him a weary look, and Anders bit his lip. “Perhaps later, then,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then I’ll let you sleep.” He pulled Fenris’s arm around his shoulders and led him into the washroom, their steps slow and awkward, Anders slowing down to find a good pace for Fenris.

He set him down on a short stool, Fenris watching listlessly as Anders collected the two water buckets and disappeared, hurrying downstairs. He returned a few minutes later with the full buckets, having dropped a few hot stones from the hearth in the kitchen in the bottom of each.

Anders set them before Fenris, the water sloshing slightly and spilling over. He knelt down, dipping a hand in each, testing them until they met his standard. Satisfied, he pulled off his jacket and vest, leaving himself in just his undershirt, before turning his attentions to Fenris.

“If you want me to stop, or do it yourself, just say so,” he said nervously lifting the hem of the elf’s grimy, bloodied linen shirt. Fenris offered no resistance, feebly lifting his arms as Anders got the shirt off of him. He heard the mage swallow, but didn’t look up.

The perversely beautiful, intricate lyrium tattoos Fenris had possessed were now gone, replaced by an ugly spider web of scars, each one sunken and purple and angry looking. He saw the mage hesitate, his fingers delicately curling into fists, and wondered if the mage wanted to touch them, to survey the extend of the damage, and to see if there was anything he could repair.

“Here, stand up for a moment,” he said, helping Fenris up, awkwardly trying not to touch the scars. He stripped Fenris of his tattered gray trousers, tossing them on top of the bloodied shirt and leaving the elf in his smalls. Those, too, were unceremoniously pulled away after a moment of hesitation, leaving Fenris feeling somewhat ashamed now that all of his scars were exposed.

While Fenris was still on his feet, Anders set the small stool in the center of the copper washtub . He watched as Fenris tried to lift his leg and climb in, and Anders automatically reached over to steady him. He caught the mage’s cocked brow as he sat down on the stool, knowing that Anders expected Fenris to berate him for helping, but all Fenris had to offer was an uncharacteristic, “Thank you.”

He sat on the stool, back turned to the mage, eyeing him warily over his shoulder as Anders grabbed a small, cotton cloth and a bar of soap. He hovered at the edge of the tub, cloth in one hand, soap in the other, afraid to touch Fenris. “Let me…let me know if I hurt you.” He dunked the cloth into the water, ensuring that it was fully submerged.

Fenris gave a hint of a nod.

Anders took a nervous breath in, holding it, and very carefully swiped a line on Fenris’s back. When the elf did not flinch, Anders exhaled, and moved onto his shoulders. He concentrated on the task, Fenris just sitting there and letting Anders work, holding out an arm when the mage prodded him, and then the other. Once he had wet the elf’s skin, he ran the soap over it, creating a good lather. He quickly finished his back and arms, and then scrambled around to do his chest. Fenris, who had been hunched over, was forced to straighten up.

 

The contact was different now—Fenris was forced to see Anders, even though he tilted his head back and stared up at the ceiling, and he could feel the mage’s hands on his chest, gingerly trying to avoid touching the scars directly. There was a soft, wet plop as Anders dropped the cloth into the bucket, switching to grab the soap.

“Are…are they painful?” he asked, scrubbing at Fenris’s collarbone. The elf swallowed thickly before answering.

“Sometimes. Some mornings they ache like they were freshly cut.”

“But this…this doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

Anders looked visibly relieved. He went back to scrubbing, now down the elf’s flat stomach, his fingers skimming down the curves of Fenris’s ribs, which protruded out grotesquely from his chest. Fenris knew he wouldn’t have lasted two weeks in the mines in his current state. There were sores on him in spots, from fly bites and malnutrition, and he had bruises, some purple, others green and yellow, in splotches on his limbs.

Fenris could have sworn he saw a flush creep into the mage’s cheeks when he scrubbed his legs, forcing Fenris to stand for a few minutes while Anders’s hands worked his thighs and calves. He finished soaping them, and then guided Fenris back to the stool.

Anders handed Fenris the soap, awkwardly turning his back to him. “You can, um. . .” Fenris took the hint, quickly scrubbing out the area between his legs.

“Your hair should be the last thing,” Anders said, bending down to retrieve one of the pails he had carried up.

He wet his hair by dumping a bit of water on him, and did his best to wash the grime out, being wary of the tangles and knots he would have to cut out. Fenris leaned over, trying to make it easier on the mage.

“I think that’s everything,” Anders said, eyes quickly skimming over Fenris from head to toe. Apparently finding nothing out of place, he tossed the rag into the first bucket, grabbing the other two and setting on the floor beside the washtub, trying not to spill them. He reached in and quickly removed the stones, setting them on the floor, before he held up the bucket.

“It’s warm, but not hot,” he said. “Ready?”

Fenris nodded, a bit more confident this time. Anders slowly emptied its contents onto him, starting at his neck. As he did so, Fenris weakly wiped the lather off himself, feeling the dirt and sweat and blood come away, too. The second pail went over his head as well, pushing his hair into his face, and he simply stood there, eyes shut, lips tightly pursed, until Anders was done.

Fenris wiped his hair from his face as Anders handed him a thick cotton cloth, wrapping him in it. “I’ll find some clothes for you,” he said, leaving Fenris to dry himself, looking like a drowned rat in the middle of the washtub.

Fenris was staring at his feet when he heard Anders return, and he looked up to see the mage holding a short stack of garments. “Here,” he said, setting them down, and Fenris drew the towel a bit tighter around himself. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He stepped out once more to give Fenris some modesty, returning just as the elf finished pulling down the new shirt Anders had given him. It was soft and warm, but too big, like the trousers and the smalls—Anders’s clothes. On the elf’s lithe frame, now made even thinner due to starvation, they nearly enveloped him.

“Sorry they’re big,” he said, scratching his head. “I’ll get you smaller ones tomorrow.” Fenris was too exhausted to care about the size of his clothes. Lured by the promise of sleep, he put his hands on the edge of the tub to steady himself as he tried to climb out. Anders helped him, making sure he didn’t lose his footing.

He took him back to the bedchamber, sitting him once more on that soft green coverlet, before he pulled it back and patted it. The elf’s brow furrowed momentarily, confused at this—sleeping in a bed wasn’t something he had done since Kirkwall, and now Anders was offering up his own? Anders insistently patted it again when he hesitated, before Fenris finally curled up on it, drawing his knees to his chest as he lay on his side, Anders drawing the covers up over him.

“I’ll be here, okay?” he said, pointing to a chair near a bookshelf in the corner of the room. “When you wake up I want to take a look at those sores and the cuts you have on your wrists and ankles.” He hesitated for a moment, his hand poised as if to touch Fenris and brush his hair from his face, but he stopped, and instead retreated to the bookshelf. Tome in hand, he finally sat down, and Fenris drifted off to the image of Anders, hunched over his book, trying to focus on it and not the pitiable creature in his bed.


	2. Chapter 2

Anders had been certain he had shut the door.

So he was mystified for a moment when a small, grayish blur streaked from the door instantly to the bed, hopping effortlessly onto the mattress. “Schätzchen!” Anders squawked, trying to keep his voice down. He instantly rose from his chair and covered the distance to Fenris’s sleeping form.

The damn cat was now nuzzling Fenris, bonking his head under the elf’s chin in an effort to rouse him. Between the loud purring and the incessant batting, it worked, and the elf’s green eyes sleepily cracked open. He’d been asleep since midmorning when Anders brought him back, and it was now mid-afternoon. By a rough guess, Anders figured Fenris had only gotten about six hours of sleep in, not nearly enough.

Anders darted in and instantly grabbed the cat. “Sorry,” he whispered. “You can go back to sleep.” He tucked the small animal under his arm, retreating away as Fenris sat up. Sensing that the elf was not going to simply roll over and ignore this incident, Anders set the cat on the floor and turned to face him.

He could feel the cat nudging his leg, seeking attention from him now, and he knelt down to scratch him behind the ears, savoring the loud purr. Fenris watched them, Anders aware of his confused, mildly disenchanted expression. He knew Fenris had always thought him soft, and weak, and he supposed the image of him here, now, eagerly petting his little fluffy, gray cat did not help change his opinion.

“Sorry about him,” Anders said, moving on to the cat’s chin. “He’s very friendly. Might have thought you were me in the bed there.”

The elf said nothing, just watched Anders and his cat.

Anders suddenly felt flustered. “We, ah, I can lock him up in another room. He doesn’t have to be out and about when you are.” He picked up the cat again, about to go and put him in a spare room, when Fenris spoke.

“Can I hold him?”

The mage raised his eyebrows, grateful his back was turned to Fenris so that the elf couldn’t take offense at his shocked expression. “I…certainly,” he said. He turned back around, looking Fenris over quickly.

“Let me heal your wrists, and then you can hold him. I don’t want to get fur or something in those cuts.” Anders held the wiggling cat in his arms like a child.

Fenris nodded, and Anders stepped over to the bed, depositing his cat on the edge. He flopped out instantly, exposing a soft, light gray belly that, in Anders’s opinion, begged to be petted.

The elf held out his wrists, palms down, and Anders tenderly took one, flipping it over to see the total damage. He knew Fenris had always been skittish about touch, especially from mages, who reacted to the lyrium in his body, but now he seemed too weak to care who laid their hands on him.

He worked quickly, sealing up one wrist, watching the skin knit together where it had been split. Sores faded in color until they vanished, and red, inflamed tissue smoothed out into fine scars. The second followed suit, and after he had finished, Anders surveyed his work once more, making sure it was sound. In the moments before he released Fenris’s hand, he took the opportunity to surreptitiously examine them. The scars covering Fenris’s body were bad enough, the result of having the lyrium cut out of his flesh. But the hands, already with little enough skin and flesh to spare, were mangled. Danarius had not been gentle. Anders could sense the broken bones that healed wrong, the muscles and tendons that had been cut carelessly. The once long, delicate fingers were curled, unable to fully open or close. No wonder Fenris had had trouble grasping the mug.

“Looks good,” he said, his voice wavering. He still expected Fenris to yank away from his touch at any second and call him a vile abomination, but there were no words of abhorrence.

Instead, he got a small, “Thank you,” punctuated by the weakest hints of a smile.

Anders picked up the cat off the bed once more, and stood before Fenris. “Here,” he said, depositing the fluffy bundle onto Fenris’s lap, the elf using his hands to contain the cat, who loved the attention. He started purring once more, perfectly content as Fenris shakily ran his hand down his back from head to tail.

Fenris’s movements were still a bit awkward and unsure, but the cat didn’t seem to mind. He nudged his small, furry head against Fenris’s palm until he scratched under his chin, purring contentedly as he did so. Anders watched as a hint of a smile formed on Fenris’s face, and he realized that the elf was enjoying the contact, the mutual affection between master and pet. The cat had done what Anders had tried to do earlier, to get Fenris to show some emotion, of any kind, and even though it had evoked by himself, Anders was still grateful and relieved that Fenris was responding.

“He likes you,” Anders said, watching the cat playfully bat at one of Fenris’s hands. Eventually the small animal nestled into his arm and shut his eyes, snug and at ease. Fenris seemed unsure of what to do, and Anders rose, extending a hand and taking the cat back, before gently setting him on the floor.

“He’ll be back, don’t worry,” he said, watching the gray cat sneak back to the door. He turned to face Fenris, who was staring at him with a blank expression. Anders pursed his lips for a moment, weighing his options, before speaking. “I have some errands to run,” he said, “and I need to leave the house for a bit.” He didn’t trust Fenris unattended in the mansion. Given his previous stubborn attitude and seeming insistence on dying, Anders knew it would be a bad idea to leave him to his own devices. But Fenris wasn’t in any sort of shape to go walking about town, so Anders settled on something in-between.

“So you’ll come with me, and we’ll take the carriage. You can wait inside at the stops.”

Fenris nodded. Anders was relieved to have struck a viable compromise, and that Fenris didn’t fight him on it. He carefully helped Fenris up, letting the elf shakily walk to the door, Anders behind him, ready to steady him if he fell.

The elf had enough resolve and determination to make it down the stairs and outside to the waiting carriage without Anders’s help, but climbing the high step into it seemed too much, and Anders was easily able to give him a boost into it. Fenris promptly settled himself on one of the velvet-lined benches inside, staring at Anders expectantly.

Anders raised one foot onto the footboard and then swung himself inside, sitting near the door and drawing it closed. He signaled the driver, sticking his arm out the window for a moment, and then drew back inside, resettling himself on the bench.

“Where are we going?” Fenris asked.

Anders cocked a brow. “Several places. My tailor, the records office, and a blacksmith friend of mine.” He studied the weary circles under Fenris’s eyes for a moment. “We won’t be out for long. You can nap in here, too.”

Fenris shook his head. Instead, he gazed blankly out the window, watching the buildings pass one by one. Anders leaned back into the bench. It was almost painful to look at Fenris, to see the dried up husk he had been reduced to. He had once been proud, almost to the point of arrogance, something which Anders had always detested, but now missed it. He longed for Fenris’s hatred of all mages, yearned to hear the spiteful comments Fenris used to direct at him.

All he had now was a silent, defunct elf. It wasn’t fair, Anders thought. His opinion of mages aside, Fenris had done no arguable wrongs in his lifetime. He had offered up his only possession in his life of slavery—his body—in an effort to better the plight of his mother and sister. He had defied a tortuous master and his sadistic apprentice. He had served loyally, nobly, with Hawke, often fighting for things he himself did not agree with.

And how had he been rewarded? With a betrayal at the hands of his lover, while his friends, his companions, sat by. With an excruciating punishment, more painful than anything Anders could imagine. With a sentence of death, being sold off to the mines to die in the rank dark below the soil.

Anders knew he was a hypocrite. He sheltered a spirit of Justice as he watched Hawke turn Fenris over, and instead of speaking out for what was honorable, what he knew was right, he had encouraged Hawke, convincing him he had made the right choice. He had killed innocents to ignite a civil war in Kirkwall, tricking Hawke into helping him while keeping their once-trusted leader in the dark. Fenris may have been aggressive, but Anders knew that he would never put an innocent person to the blade.

If there were any kind of justice in life, Anders knew he should toil in the Void.

The silence that had fallen between them was nearly drowning Anders. Before Justice, he had detested a lull in a conversation, believing he could fill it with his own self-important blather. With Justice, however, he had been content to sit with his thoughts from time to time. But now that the spirit was gone, there was an uncomfortable quiet in his head, and the old desire to ramble on had returned.

He was grateful when Fenris finally spoke, shattering the mute atmosphere of the carriage.

“What city is this?”

“Hmm?”

Fenris shifted his posture at the window. “This…this is not Minrathous. When Danarius sold me, we left the city, but I do not know where we went.”

“We’re in Vol Dorma,” Anders answered, feeling a small pang of guilt at the mention of Danarius’s name.

Fenris folded his arms on the windowsill and rested his chin there, like a child. Anders stared numbly at his feet until the carriage stopped, and the driver pulled open the door for him, gesturing at the building behind him.

“I’ll only be a minute,” he said, waiting on a reply, a reaction, anything to indicate acknowledgment from Fenris. When he got nothing but silence, he ducked, squeezed through the small door, and climbed down onto the street.

The acrid scent of smoke and burning coal stung the inside of his throat as he inhaled, the smells of the smithy drifting uninhibited into the street. He made his way into the stone building, pushing open the heavy wooden door to slip into the dim interior.

An open hearth and a pile of glowing coals were the only sources of light inside, but despite the poor lighting Anders could still make out the image of the smith, raising his hammer before bringing it down cleanly onto the blade he was tooling, the resulting clang reverberating around the room.

He repeated the motion several times as Anders crossed the room, approaching the anvil he stood behind. Each strike was followed by the loud, unnerving crash of metal against metal.

“Alois,” Anders said, putting his arms behind his back as he stopped.

The smith looked up, his pale face covered in thick, black lines of soot. “Anders,” he said, briefly looking up before abruptly returning to his work.

Anders liked the man. He was originally from Kassel, making him a true-blooded Anders, complete with a soft accent.

The mage stood there, unsure of what to do, until Alois finally set the hammer down and looked up at him.

“What did you need, Anders?” he asked, grabbing a rag from his waistband and wiping his hands onto it. He had dark hair, almost black, pulled into a half-ponytail to keep it out of his face. What wasn’t pulled back fell even with his square jaw line.

Anders cleared his throat. “I…do you remember that armor I asked you about? And the greatsword?”

“The ones you drew the sodding little pictures of?” Alois laughed grimly. “Yes, I do.”

Anders flushed in embarrassment, grateful that Alois couldn’t see him all that well. “Well, I’ve come to need it.”

The blacksmith frowned. “It’ll take me at least a month to do it. And then it’ll have to be fitted and altered.”

“That’s fine,” Anders said, holding his hands up. “Take as long as you need. I’ll pay whatever you ask for it.”

Even in the low light, Anders saw Alois cock a brow. “All right,” the smith said, picking up his hammer once more.

“I’ll be back in two weeks to see how they’re coming along,” Anders said, watching as the blacksmith resumed his work.

Alois said nothing, refocused on his hammer strikes. Anders left the smith to his work, returning to the carriage and his disenchanted Fenris.

***

 

Fenris sat stoically through the next two errands, occasionally glancing over as Anders returned from the tailor empty handed, but with a rolled up scroll of vellum from the records office. He made no attempt to ask about it, and so Anders offered up no information.

Instead, he fiddled with the cord binding the vellum, trying to focus on anything besides Fenris. The elf’s lack of motivation to live, his utter disinterest in self-preservation, frightened Anders, but he knew that begging and pleading would do nothing to sway Fenris. He needed another way to give Fenris his lust for life back, but there seemed to be nothing he could do for this broken man.

Forcing him would not work. If it came down to it, Anders could hold Fenris down and force feed him, but he knew that would only push him in the other direction. He would have been rescued from Danarius, only to find an old companion just as cruel.

Anders knew he had to get Fenris to eat of his own volition. He had to find whatever spark would reignite his zeal, would put the life back in his eyes and the confidence in his step. But what could he offer him? Revenge on Danarius, on Hawke? The magister was much more powerful than he, and Hawke had fallen off the face of Thedas.

The only thing Anders could offer him was the promise of a better life. Fenris was welcome to stay with Anders for as long as he pleased, and Anders would make no demands of him. Even though he had bought Fenris as a slave, he would never be one in Anders’s eyes, and the vellum on the table was a statement of that belief. He had gotten weird looks from all around in the records office, and some haughty comments from his clerk, but nothing would deter him from getting Fenris’s freedom in writing.

When the carriage drew to a stop at the house once more, Anders held the door open and helped Fenris down, making sure he didn’t slip on the footboard. He tucked the vellum under his arm and carefully helped the elf inside, the driver opening the oak doors to the house for them.

One of the servants was waiting in the hall. She was a slight, red-haired elven girl, with pretty hazel eyes and a soft voice. Anders struggled momentarily to remember her name before arriving at Ondine.

“Ser, supper is ready,” she said, glancing briefly at him before looking down at her hands.

“Thank you,” Anders said, shifting his grip on Fenris. “I’ll be in the dining room.”

With the vellum still tucked securely in place, he led Fenris slowly to the small dining room he had. Anders had opted for a traditional table and chairs, the way he had been used to in Ferelden. Something about reclining on couches and eating off silver trays, the traditional Tevinter way, had never appealed to him.

The rectangular table was big enough to seat perhaps six, with four chairs currently placed at it, two on each of the long sides. The floor, like the rest of the house, was stone, white, something Anders had also found foreign. The windows of his house were also not truly windows—instead, they were beautiful geometric patterns cut through the wall, allowing light and air to flow in from outside without compromising the structural integrity of the wall.

Anders had always liked the dining room, and frequently used it as a study instead of his actual office. It was bright and welcoming, the walls were a warm, orangey red, and it was near the kitchen, so he could always smell the comforting meals Ondine and the servants were cooking.

He gently let Fenris go, watching the elf crumple into a chair. He gave Anders a confused, mildly accusing look as the mage sat down beside him, setting the roll of vellum on the table.

“I’m not going to force you to eat anything,” he said, scooting his chair in. “Just…sit with me.”

The servants came in, bustling about with a few small trays of food, one laden with fruit, bread and cheese, the other with a roast cut into small pieces. There was, as always, a surplus of food. Anders didn’t eat all that much at mealtimes, instead preferring to snack throughout the day, and the servants had been slowly preparing less and less at meals. He hated seeing his leftovers go to waste, and had told them they were welcome to anything he didn’t eat.

Anders piled some chunks of the roast onto the plate Ondine had given him, and took some bread as well, tearing it into bite-sized chunks. Fenris watched halfheartedly.

“Why did you buy me?” he asked as Anders was mid-bite, stuffing a morsel into his mouth.

He finished chewing and swallowed, using the time to formulate an answer. “I bought you because I wanted to set you free, Fenris. I…I wanted to give you back what Hawke…what we all took away.” An uncomfortable pause followed. “But you don’t…you don’t even have the desire to live, much less be free.”

Anders pushed his plate away. “I’m sorry, Fenris.”

The elf looked at him from the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry that I…that I didn’t stop Danarius. That I let Hawke do what he did. I’m sorry that it took me so long to find you, that I put my own _foolish_ needs before yours. I’m sorry that I was the _biggest_ damn hypocrite in Thedas, prattling on about mages and slavery and tossing you right back into those chains.” Anders’s breath was ragged, and he dug his nails into his palms, so hard he could feel the skin breaking. He harbored hate and disgust for Hawke, but the majority of it he directed at himself.

“I failed you, Fenris,” he continued. “Even though we…never saw eye to eye in the past, it doesn’t excuse what I did. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’ve been reduced to this. And I’m also sorry that…that I can only promise you that it will never happen again. I wish I could give you something, some concrete guarantee that it won’t, but….”

He swallowed thickly. “You’re welcome to my home for as long as you like. Anything you want, just say and I’ll get it for you.”

There was a long silence before Fenris finally spoke again. “Your apology is...unnecessary. What happened no longer matters.”

In shock, Anders stared at him. His betrayal, Hawke's betrayal _didn't matter?_ “How?” he asked. “How can you say that?”

Fenris lifted one shoulder in the minutest of shrugs. “Because it is the truth.”

Below the guilt and horror and pain, something stirred in Anders. Anger. It was so very reminiscent of what it had felt like when Justice took affront to something that for a moment Anders forgot the spirit was no longer there. “I refuse to accept that.”

“Why?”

“Because, Fenris, I know you. I know deep beneath this…whatever it is,” he waved his hands, gesturing wildly at Fenris, “you’re furious. You’re furious with Hawke and me and Danarius. Anger like that doesn’t go away.”

“You know nothing of me, mage,” Fenris said, his voice low, and Anders thought he could see the faintest hints of a snarl forming at the corners of his mouth. Anger was better than apathy, Anders decided.

“I know everything I need to know. You used to be proud, and defiant, and you reveled in the fact that you had chased off your master from his own home. And rightly so. You were someone to be _envied_ , Fenris, so strong and independent. And you can’t tell me that you’re not angry that everything you worked for and earned was taken from you, taken by a vile man that you thought you had beaten.

“Where’s your fight, Fenris?” Anders taunted. “You're sitting there feeling sorry for yourself, like the whole world betrayed you when you had done nothing wrong. And you know what? You're right. But the Fenris I knew—the Fenris I _know_ —wouldn't have simply sat there and taken it. You used to fight. With words and weapons, you always fought. Don't stop now.”

“Fighting.” Fenris laughed bitterly and held up his ruined hands. “Tell me, _mage_ , how I am to fight like this?”

Anders leveled his gaze, staring Fenris directly into his exasperated, frustrated green eyes. “You’ll find a way. If anyone can do it, it’s you, Fenris, and I know you can. I can help you, heal you, repair the damage, and find you someone to train with, but the desire has to come from you, Fenris. I can’t make you want to live or fight again.”

“I am _worthless_ , mage. Why would I desire to do so?”

“It's not like you have no skills, Fenris. No, you don't have the abilities the lyrium gave you, but you're still a fine warrior. You haven't forgotten battle or how to fight."

“It is not the same.”

“No. No, it's not. Believe me, I know how you feel.”

“You cannot possibly know how I feel. If I were so skilled, if I had so much value, then why did the man I—” He cut himself off, swallowing hard. “Then why did he give me away, like so much trash?”

Anders’s nostrils flared, and he kept an even tone as he spoke. “Because he’s a cruel man with too much power, Fenris. You are not trash. You are not worthless. You are a man who had his life and liberty taken from him and was powerless to stop it.”

He carefully reached over to the elf, carefully taking one of his ruined hands, the fingers gnarled and twisted, the sunken scars making them look even more horrific. “I want you to have them back, Fenris.” He turned Fenris’s mangled hand over, palm up, and slowly let his mana flow, seeking out torn tendons, smoothing out scar tissue, repairing cartilage and ligaments and badly set bone. Now that he was actively directing his magic into the damage, Anders could feel how extensive it was, and swallowed as he realized the agony it must be. He opened his connection to the Veil wider, pulling on more power to complete the healing.

Fenris visibly stiffened, but made no motion to pull his hand away. Anders continued his work, until all that remained on Fenris’s hands were the sunken scars, awful in appearance, but satisfied in knowing that the damage beneath them had been repaired.

The elf drew his hand into a fist, his face visibly astonished at what Anders had done. He flexed each finger individually, testing the range of motion, still in disbelief. Anders cautiously reached out for the elf’s other hand, Fenris too fixated on evaluating the healer’s work to notice.

Anders set to work on the second, restoring what he could, unable to fix the gnarled scars on his skin, but able to set almost everything else right. Fenris removed his hand when Anders had finished, holding them both up, his eyes wide with wonder.

“Thank you,” he said, weakly, and Anders smiled.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said, focusing his attentions on one of the platters. He picked out a small loaf of bread, holding it out to Fenris, who somewhat grudgingly stared at it, and then at Anders.

He moved it slightly closer to the elf, waggling it slightly. “Please, Fenris?” he said, in a last ditch effort. “I can only do so much, and I can’t help you if you’re dead.”

Fenris, still evaluating the dexterity of his revitalized digits, took the loaf in his nimble fingers, ripping off a large chunk with his teeth and devouring it. Anders sat back, pleased and visibly relieved, watching Fenris scarf down the soft, white bread.

It was a start. Perhaps not much of one, but as long as Fenris was willing, there was hope.


	3. Chapter 3

Fenris ate as much as Anders would let him, which wasn’t a great amount. He started to feel full almost instantly, despite the hunger still gnawing at him, and Anders was forced to stop him as he kept reaching for more.

“I know you’re starving,” he said, “but you’ll make yourself sick if you eat too much.”

Fenris was caught between the torment of hunger and the sensation of being overstuffed, and he sat there, fidgeting, until Anders abandoned his own meal and led him upstairs.

Anders delegated no task, insisting on taking care of Fenris himself. He could have easily turned him over to the servants, asking them to tend to Fenris, but any time one of them approached him, he politely told them that he didn’t need their help, at least not currently. Instead, he helped Fenris up the long staircase once more, letting him sit on the bed while Anders fetched a linen nightshirt that would surely be too large for Fenris from his bureau.

When Fenris was redressed, Anders pulled back the blankets for him, Fenris gently taking them as he settled into the bed. Anders gave a weary smile, and Fenris noticed the dark circles under his eyes. Apparently his life had gotten no easier since he had left Kirkwall, although from the stories he had heard about the city’s ruin, Fenris had assumed as such.

He nestled into the pillows, pulling the blankets tight around him. The security of a bed was something he had not truly enjoyed in years, but it was a welcome feeling. Fenris drew his knees slightly to his chest, lying on his side, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.

Through his fuzzy vision, he glimpsed Anders, having settled himself at the other side of the room, behind his writing desk, lit by the dim glow of a small lantern. He could very faintly hear the scritch-scritch of Anders’s quill moving on parchment, with the occasional hollow tap as he dipped it in ink.

Fenris quickly drifted off, unperturbed by Anders’s presence in the room.

***

 

He woke after dawn the next morning when the sunlight began to stream in through the windows, hitting his face and warming it. His eyelids fluttered for a moment, and he was instantly met with panic at his unfamiliar surroundings, until his memory caught up and informed him of where he was.

Fenris pushed himself onto his elbows, scanning around the room. Soft breathing alerted him to Anders, and he saw the mage curled up on a couch behind his writing desk, still in the clothes he had worn during the day. The only things absent were his boots, one resting near the couch, the other out of sight.

Silently, Fenris sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the cold stone of the floor. He tested his weight on them, finding that he could stand, and took a few shaky steps, staggering into the half of Anders’s bedchamber he used as a study, complete with a desk, bookshelves and a couch. He did not want to wake the mage—it seemed he could use the sleep—but he was unable to go far, and so Fenris stopped before one of Anders’s massive, cluttered bookshelves.

Most of the books were standing vertically, but on top of the rows rested other tomes haphazardly placed horizontally, in an effort to cram more in the shelves. Fenris brushed his fingers over the titles, some of them vaguely familiar, others completely foreign to him.

An unwanted memory abruptly surfaced in Fenris’s mind. _Hawke, idly toying with his hair as he slowly read, sounding out each syllable with painful deliberateness. Giggling like a boy when Fenris grew frustrated before helping him. Taking over the task of reading when Fenris’s eyelids grew heavy, the sound of his voice as comforting as his embrace._

He clenched his hands into fists, and the lack of pain surprised him. Anders. The mage had healed him, had undone the lasting pain Danarius had inflicted. Fenris looked over at him, curled up on the sofa, arms pulled in like a child, with his feet bare and hair mussed. He knew that Anders had pined over Hawke, too, but that Hawke had spurned his affections on many occasions, going so far as to chastise Anders in front of the others. For a brief second, Fenris wondered what life would have been like if Hawke had chosen Anders, had taken up with his fellow mage, and leaving Fenris in Anders’s shoes.

The mage sighed in his sleep, and Fenris returned his attentions to the books. He started to tug one free, until the book lying on top of it slid forward too. Fenris tried to stop it, but the two clattered to the floor, each hitting the marble with a weighty thump.

Anders startled awake with a snort as Fenris cringed. The mage blinked a few times, frantically brushing strands of loose hair from his face, before raising his eyebrows at the sight before him.

“Fenris?”

Panic flooded Fenris’s veins. He was afraid Anders would forget why he was here, would throw him out on the street, back where he came from, without another thought. He couldn’t help the frightened look on his face, the widening of his eyes and brief tremor in his hands. Strange that he should feel such fear when barely more than a day ago he wanted nothing more than to get away from the mage.

“Why don’t you go back to bed?” Anders said, stretching. Fenris heard various joints snap and pop, Anders’s expression scrunching up in mild discomfort. “I’ll bring us something to eat.”

Fenris nodded, and he slowly retreated back to the bed, Anders waiting a step behind to catch him if he fell. Fenris, however, was determined to do things on his own, despite the mage’s offers for help. It was a small bit of his old pride returning, morsel by morsel, and Fenris hoped that Anders could see that.

He settled himself back on the bed, sitting on top of the blankets, stiff legs splayed before him, and waited for Anders to return. The mage bustled back into the room a few minutes later, carrying a platter, maneuvering carefully as to not drop any of its contents. He sat on the foot of the bed, setting it between himself and Fenris, and both men eyed the food on it hungrily.

Anders waited, urging Fenris on with his eyes, and the elf carefully reached over and took an apple and another small roll. The mage continued to linger, his hand hovering over the tray, until he finally snatched a handful of grapes and began to eat them one by one.

Fenris ate slowly, deliberately chewing each bite. Anders had scarfed down the grapes and was currently evaluating his options on the tray, a mild pout on his face.

“You’re not a magister,” Fenris said, breaking the silence.

Anders froze, his hand on a pomegranate. “No, I’m not,” he said, slowly, as if he had just come to this realization himself. He drew the fruit into his lap and started to crack it open, bony fingers digging into the burgundy peel.

“So how can you afford,” Fenris paused to wave his hand about the room, “all this?”

Anders gave a brief grin of victory as the pomegranate split, revealing tiny maroon seeds neatly packed together. “I play nursemaid to some very important magisters,” he offered, picking out a few of the seeds and popping them in his mouth. “They know I have no political ambition, and that I’m against blood magic, so it works out. They don’t see me as any kind of competition.”

Fenris nodded. He turned the apple over in his hands, and Anders held out one of his, expectantly, picking up a small paring knife from the tray. He clearly was waiting for Fenris to hand over the apple so he could cut it for him, but instead, Fenris raised a brow and held out his own hand.

There was a brief standoff between them, with Anders refusing to give in for a moment, but he eventually reached out, placing the handle of the knife in Fenris’s palm. Fenris knew he was afraid of what the elf would do to himself with it, after seeing what kind of state he was in yesterday. However, the fact that Anders was beginning to trust him continued to fan the small flames of Fenris’s desire for life.

Fenris enjoyed the familiar dexterity of his hands. He cut the apple swiftly, confidently, in several swift strokes, pressing the knife deep to the core and cutting wedges out.

“Why did you come to Tevinter?” he asked, slicing out another chunk.

Anders seemed taken off guard by the question. “Why did I…?” He fell silent for a moment, red-stained fingertips coming to rest lightly on his chin as he stared at his lap, pondering. “You never heard what happened in Kirkwall, did you? No, you wouldn’t have, you were gone long before….”

“I heard that Kirkwall fell into chaos, and that _Hawke_ had something to do with a Circle revolt,” Fenris offered, the spite clearly evident in his intonation.

Anders bit his lip for a long time, before he inhaled sharply. “I blew up the Chantry.”

Fenris dropped the apple, his hand tightening around the knife. “You _what?!_ ”

Anders’s face twisted in fear and sorrow. “I destroyed the Chantry in Hightown. Blew it up. The one Sebastian used to live in; you remember him—”

“Why would you do such a thing?” Fenris said, retrieving the apple, but refusing to meet Anders’s eye.

“Things…in Kirkwall were getting worse. Meredith was becoming more and more deranged, more paranoid, and one night, she demanded the Tower be searched. Orsino, he was the First Enchanter, and he resisted at first, but even he still wanted to seek the advice of the Grand Cleric. But I knew she would just _give in_ , just compromise and let Meredith do what she wanted, and…Justice wouldn’t allow that. So I destroyed the Chantry.” Anders’s voice wavered, hindered by bitterness and sorrow, and he buried his face in his palms as he finished speaking.

Fenris was beginning to piece the events together. Before his departure, Meredith had begun to show signs of instability, so much so that even the templars around her were questioning her actions. Of course, Anders had not said _why_ Meredith intended to search the Tower, but Fenris vaguely assumed it was something relatively trivial.

Anders’s actions regarding the Chantry had escalated what must have been an already bad situation even further, resulting in the Circle’s full scale revolt. Fenris had heard of the troubles in Kirkwall, that the rebellion there had sparked others across Thedas, and that Hawke was involved, but he had never known the details. They hadn’t been important until now.

“I’m sorry, Fenris,” Anders mumbled from behind his hands. He dropped them a moment later.

“I should have told you. I’m sorry. But,” he continued, before Fenris had a chance to speak, “that’s why I came to Tevinter. I couldn’t stay in the Free Marches—Sebastian swore he’d hunt me down. I considered returning to Ferelden and the Wardens, but…they would have to turn me over eventually. And the Anderfels didn’t seem like a good option. But I knew, in Tevinter, the Black Divine wouldn’t hand me over, and I’d at least have _some_ freedoms. And there were…other reasons.” Anders stilled for a moment, before he snatched half of the pomegranate in his lap and violently hurled it at the far wall, mouth contorted into a snarl. The outburst surprised Fenris, although he did not flinch or show it.

He considered asking Anders, but then decided against it. He had no desire right now to learn the fate of Isabela or Aveline or Varric or…or Hawke. Instead, he stared sullenly at his knees, listening to the soft sounds of Anders’s fidgeting.

“If you stay, though, I’ll help you return to fighting.”

Fenris peeked up at him, green eyes meeting Anders’s brown ones for a moment.

“I mean it,” the mage repeated. “I can heal the damage left over from the lyrium, everything except the scars. And when you’re well enough, I’ll find someone to retrain you. I want to see you restored, Fenris.”

Fenris sat there in silence, almost obstinate, until Anders sighed, picking up the platter, and heading to the door. He was nudging it open with his foot when Fenris spoke.

“Is this what you truly want, Anders, or is it the will of that spirit of yours?”

Anders visibly stiffened, and eyed Fenris over his shoulder. “Justice? Justice is…gone.”

Fenris’s brow furrowed. Anders turned to face him, leaning on the doorframe.

“He and I are no longer one. After the Chantry I realized I couldn’t do it anymore, and so I…another reason I came to Tevinter was to seek out a means to separate us.”

“And you found one.”

“I did.”

“Do you regret it? Separating yourselves?”

Anders paused thoughtfully. “No,” he answered, and then disappeared out the door.

***

 

Fenris spent the rest of the morning with Anders, the mage healing various joints. He had decided the best way to set about restoring Fenris to full health was to do a bit of healing each day, giving Fenris time to evaluate what needed work between sessions. They started with Fenris’s arms, Anders toiling over his elbows and shoulders, restoring Fenris’s range of motion.

Touch still alarmed Fenris, but there was now no lyrium in his skin for the magic to react so ferociously with. Anders’s ministrations felt mildly good, soothing stiff joints, washing away old aches, even dulling the ghost pain of the scars a bit. However, the purple lines remained gouged into his skin, and Fenris knew they would remain there forever. Anders’s magic could only do so much, and washing away scar tissue was beyond his limits.

When Anders finished, he was paler, a few beads of sweat collecting at his temples. He wiped his face and slumped down into his desk chair, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly and shutting his eyes. Fenris wasn’t sure what to make of this new Anders. He had reined in his incessant pontificating, that was for certain, but Fenris attributed that mostly to the loss of Justice. Perhaps witnessing the crimes of magisters in Tevinter firsthand had also ceased Anders’s preaching about the sufferings mages endured back in the Free Marches.

From Isabela and the Warden Nathaniel Howe, Fenris had been granted a glimpse of what Anders had been like before his merge with Justice. He had apparently been sarcastic, hot-headed, and somewhat reckless, traits which Fenris had only hazily recognized during his stay in Kirkwall. With Justice, he had been obsessive and confrontational, clinging fervently to a cause, literally attempting to pour everything he had into it, including his own life.

Fenris wondered where he lay now, stranded between these two extremes. Perhaps, under the pity and stress and lament, the old Anders remained, with his sardonic wit and lust for the simple pleasures of life.

“How did you separate yourself from Justice?” Fenris asked, just as Anders began to tap his fingers on his desk, deep in thought.

“Hmm? Oh,” he said, blinking a few times. “It was an old Tevinter ritual designed to treat demonic possession. I spent a few months learning everything I could about it before I felt ready enough to try it. I didn’t think it would work, honestly.”

“But it did?” Fenris asked, rubbing at his shoulder.

Anders nodded hesitantly. “It…it did.”

Anders seemed relieved to be without the spirit, but there was something else there, something Fenris could not place. Perhaps he missed Justice, yearned the constant companionship the spirit provided, the drive the specter had given him. Or could Anders have simply lost something of himself when he lost Justice?  
Fenris suddenly lost his appetite. He set the remainder of apple and core back on the tray, Anders following it with his eyes. “Was Tevinter what you expected it to be?”

“Oh, Maker, no,” Anders said, violently shaking his head. “You…every story you told, about how awful the magisters here are, you were right. There’s blood magic everywhere and they toy with lives like they’re nothing. It’s…it’s horrific, but I have nowhere else to go.”

Fenris stared numbly at the half-eaten food on the platter.

“I…I really wish I could take you away from here, from Tevinter, Fenris. And if you…if you want to leave, once you’re well enough, I won’t stop you. You deserve to be out of Tevinter.”

The possibility of leaving Tevinter hadn’t occurred to Fenris in years, since he left Kirkwall so long ago. He enjoyed life in the Free Marches, for as long as he had been free, and now, he could return there, if he so desired. But who would be there to greet him? Were any of his old companions even still around?

Anders squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “Is…is there anything you want for around the house?” He elaborated when Fenris gave him a quizzical look. “I mean, you won’t be well enough to start training for a while, so I wondered if you wanted any particular books, or paper, or…whatever you do. All I remember is that you used to drink a lot of wine.”

Fenris was stumped by the request for a long moment. Back in Kirkwall, he had found it hard to occupy himself. As a slave, he had never been allowed to develop hobbies outside of his martial skills, and having his memories removed had only further distanced himself from any kind of interests he might have had. But now, he supposed, was the time to try and cultivate something.

“I mean, all of the books are open to you, as well as just about anything on my desk, so long as it’s not written on…” Anders continued to babble, clearly anxious about Fenris’s lack of a response.

“I’ll start with the books,” Fenris answered, mildly trying to calm the mage. Anders gave a weak grin in response.

The mage rose from his chair, running a hand through his hair as he began to stride towards the door. “I’m just going to get some things from downstairs,” he said, reaching for the knob. He stopped, however, lingering for a long moment, before slowly looking at Fenris from the corner of his eye.

“Fenris?” he asked, and the elf raised a brow.

“Yes?”

“I…I’m really glad you’ve started to…to come around.”

Fenris thought he saw a faint blush creep into Anders’s cheeks as the man slipped out the door once more.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I've changed some of the canon events of the game, setting Leandra's death after Fenris's betrayal. This is, to my knowledge, the only canon change I've made (there might be an accidental one, but I think this is it...).

Fenris’s presence was a welcome change to Anders’s life.

Since he had arrived in Tevinter, he had devoted all of his energy and efforts to establishing some kind of life for himself here. Relationships, both platonic and romantic, were once again set aside in lieu of his work, much as they had been in Kirkwall. In Tevinter, he had yet to cross paths with some as dashing as Hawke had been.

 _Hawke._

The name brought forth a mixture of emotions for Anders. On one hand, he still somewhat pined for the man, for soft black hair and the faint tickle of stubble, for the steady reassurance his voice provided, for the kind and generous man he could be. And on the other, there was now a swirling miasma of hatred and fury, a desire to seek vengeance for Fenris, for what had been done to him at Hawke’s whim.

But now he had company once more, company he could talk to, that would respond and engage him, unlike the cat. As soon as Fenris’s legs were healed and strong enough to get him tottering about, he insisted on following Anders everywhere, throughout the house, into the gardens, even on short errands. Anders didn’t mind one bit.

In the week following Fenris’s arrival, Anders was called away to work twice. Both times were non-dire situations, one involving a broken wrist and the other a mild fever, but he had insisted Fenris stay at the house during these trips. After what had been done to him by magisters in the past, Anders was never going to let him near another one.

He pondered the irony of that situation during his return trip after the second incident. Fenris had been Danarius’s bodyguard, and with Hawke, he had served as a guardian within the party. Anders had been begrudgingly saved by Fenris many a time during their travels together. But now, Anders had assumed the role of protector, albeit not with a sword in his hand.

Fenris was out in the garden when Anders returned, resting in the shade of his pomegranate tree, a book in his lap. He frowned over it, absorbed in it, and only looked up when Anders loomed over him.

“What’re you reading?”

“ _The Tale of Iloren_ ,” he said. “It was one of the few non-magic books you had on the shelf.”

Anders laughed. “Sorry,” he said, aware that he was blushing. He carefully sat beside Fenris, feeling the creak in his knees as he did so. “Most of the books I had were ones I collected when I was trying to separate myself from Justice. But we can go to a bookseller tomorrow if you like and get some new ones. Things you’d like to read.”

Fenris waited a long moment before nodding. Anders surveyed his face for a moment. His color had returned, no longer ashen and gray, instead now a healthy, tanned brown. The white hair, once greasy and matted, was fluffy and soft and clean, framing Fenris’s face as it had in years past. His arms, face, and legs were beginning to fill out, due to a regular, healthy diet. Fenris was returning from the brink of death, Anders could see that, and he only wished he could do something about the scars.

“Anders,” Fenris asked, and the mage was shocked to hear him use his name, “can you tell me something?”

“Hm?”

“What became of Hawke?”

“I…Fenris…” Anders was stalling. He didn’t want to have to talk about this with Fenris—it was too painful for both of them.

The elf glared at him with determined green eyes. “Tell me. I want to know.” After a moment, he added, “Please.”

Anders inhaled sharply, and then sighed. “I’m going to stop if it distresses you,” he warned. Fenris nodded.

“A lot happened after your…departure. Hawke’s mother was killed by a blood mage named Quentin. Remember Dupuis’s wife? It was the same man who killed her. Tensions with Meredith were getting ridiculous, as I told you, and then that one night where she demanded the Tower be searched for blood mages. I…did what I did, and I expected Hawke to kill me, right then and there. I’d been…I’d been hoping for it, actually, but he didn’t. Maybe it was because he was a mage himself, I don’t know, but he didn’t. Instead, he took me with him.”

“Sebastian was furious, as you can imagine. He swore vengeance on the two of us and left that moment to head back to Starkhaven. Hawke killed Meredith, in the end, but by then Kirkwall was in chaos. After the final fight I fled, leaving him in the ruins of the city.”

“A few months later, as I was heading up to Tevinter I heard word that Hawke was being used as a figurehead for rebellion in other cities. Capitalizing on it, I’d assume. I don’t know how genuinely sympathetic he was to the mage’s cause.” Fenris’s face was blank, either with rage or apathy, and Anders couldn’t distinguish between the two when it came to the elf. “But that’s all I’ve heard. Just rumors. I’ve never asked.”

Fenris still did not move. Anders felt his ribs constrict in a cage of regret, one that was slow choking off his air. Perhaps he would just suffocate next to Fenris, right here in the grass, and then he wouldn’t have to worry about the elf, or anything else, ever again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have told you. I’m sorry.”

“I asked,” Fenris said coldly.

“That doesn’t mean I should have told you,” Anders retorted, bitter at himself. He was caught between trying to please Fenris by providing him with answers and trying to protect him from the ones he knew would upset him.

Silence fell on the pair, the only sounds coming from the chirping of the birds in the garden and the soft rustle of a warm late summer breeze through the trees. Tevinter’s climate, while brutally hot and humid in the summer, had proved, in Anders opinion, to be quite pleasant in winter, when it cooled off some and rains were frequent. It was nearly fall now, the pomegranates and apples ripe and ready for picking, and soon the storms would follow.

“So I’ve been thinking,” Anders said, breaking the silence between them, “about another week and then maybe you can start some light training? Just things for mobility and whatnot, nothing where you’re running around with a weapon yet.”

Fenris said nothing, just stared at the knees of his trousers.

“That is, provided you still want to,” Anders said nervously, trying to reassure himself more than Fenris.

He slowly looked up, dark green eyes meeting Anders’s warm brown ones, and nodded, very sure of himself and his decision. Anders smiled, completely unabashed, feeling his cheeks tense at the sheer enthusiasm of his expression.

“Good,” he said. “Now then, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.” He slowly pushed himself to his feet, feeling his knees creak and his back protest, and then held out a hand to Fenris, carefully hauling the elf to his feet. They walked back into the house, Anders with his arm around Fenris’s shoulders, no longer to support him, but to walk with him as a friend.

***

 

Fenris had clearly been spurred on by Anders’s promise. He ate as much as he could at mealtimes, not gorging himself, but definitely regaining his appetite. He shadowed Anders throughout the house, walking everywhere with the mage, a certain eagerness in his eyes. Anders had even caught him stretching in the evenings, testing the range of motion of his arms, rebuilding the dexterity in them, making mock swordfighting motions.

Anders watched him like a proud parent. Fenris was currently moving about the courtyard, practicing sidesteps without an opponent, completely engrossed in the task. The sun was slipping over the horizon, a few stars making their presence known, and Anders lingered in the doorway, watching him on the stones.

Fenris never fell. He wasn’t stupid enough to push himself too hard, and even though Anders could see the frustration in his face whenever something wasn’t up to par, Fenris simply repeated the motion until it became comfortable. He had time and motivation now to return to greatness.

His bare feet hopped from stone to stone on the courtyard floor, in a simple left sidestep. Anders watched him do the gesture perhaps twenty times, each time more fluid and confident. Fenris eventually stopped, a bead of sweat running down his neck, and turned to look at Anders.

“Yes?” he asked, straightening up.

Anders detached himself from the doorframe. “I guess I ought to tell you this now, in case you want to change it, but…I had your old armor recomissioned. The things you used to wear in Kirkwall.” He bit his lip. “I mean, as best as I could remember them.”

Fenris looked taken aback, his mouth falling slightly agape. Anders’s heart froze.

“We can get something else if you don’t want that—” he said, rushed, holding his hands up.

Fenris shook his head, white hair falling into his face. He pushed it out with an easy gesture, smoothing it back. “No, I…” His face fell for a moment. “Thank you.”

Anders blinked. He had been afraid that that armor would have been too painful of a reminder for Fenris, of the days spent at Hawke’s side and his ultimate betrayal. To Anders, however, it would always remind him of the great warrior Fenris had been, the loyal, tenacious man who fought with the heart of a wolf.

“You’re very welcome,” Anders said. He inhaled sharply. “I trust the smith, but…do you want to have a word with him tomorrow? I’m sure he’ll want to accurately get your measurements.”

Fenris nodded.

Anders laughed nervously. “Good. Because I’m sure my lovely description of ‘He’s about yea high,’” he held up his hand for reference, “wasn’t very helpful.”

A slow, genuine smile crept onto Fenris’s face. In the evening light, the scars dotting his face and arms seemed fainter, almost like tattoos and not the painful remnants of Danarius’s torture. His hair, starkly lighter than his skin in the lowlight, stuck out, framing his face and glinting ever so slightly as the sun tossed up its final rays.

They went inside as the stars continued to dot the sky, Anders heading to his study, with Fenris two steps behind like a faithful dog. As Anders seated himself at his desk, Fenris mirrored him on the bed, stretching out his arms once more before returning to his book.

Anders touched some of the papers before him when he was sure Fenris was distracted. He caught glimpses of the letters he had saved, most corresponding to one person, someone he had known years and years ago, before his time in Kirkwall. The writing was spidery and thin, more like organized scratches than any kind of neat handwriting.

 _“…I don’t like the thought of you, you, of all people using arcane blood rituals…”_

 _“…despite my warnings, you’re still going to do this? I thought you had some sense, Anders…”_

 _“…my magister friend tells me Danarius sold him for less than a sovereign to the mines outside Minrathous…”_

 _“…you should focus on finding him, and not this silly ritual, before it’s too late…”_

 _“…it really worked? You’re sure you haven’t lost something else? No other effects?...”_

Anders sighed. These letters came as a double edged sword, reminding him of his foolishness yet also guiding him through two of the most important tasks of his life. He piled them up into a neat stack before starting his latest reply.

Fenris remained on the bed and turned a page, blissfully unaware. Anders intended to keep it that way.

***

 

Anders knew he would savor the wonder that had been so blatantly written on Fenris’s face for a long, long time to come. In the old days of Kirkwall, he would have viewed Fenris’s amazement as a form of naivety, possibly using it to poke fun at the elf. But those days were long gone, just like Anders’s desires to mock and tease Fenris, which he supposed was for the better.

Alois had taken some quick measurements, and shown Fenris the plans Anders had given him. The mage had been incredibly flustered at that, watching Fenris scrutinize his tiny scribbling with all the austerity and pomp of an appraiser. He had corrected something, and Alois had given him a pencil to sketch in the correct details.

Fenris’s hands had moved with deliberate slowness, still testing out his recently rediscovered dexterity. The memory of his gnarled, twisted digits still churned Anders’s stomach, but the promise of restoring Fenris to his former glory quickly chased those dark thoughts away.

They finished in the smithy and returned to the carriage without any fuss. Fenris had a contemplative expression on his face as he climbed into the car after Anders, shutting the door behind him and sitting very squarely on the bench. Anders watched him expectantly until Fenris mustered up the will to speak.

“Why did you have my Kirkwall armor recomissioned?”

Hurt flooded Anders’s face, but he tried to quickly regain his composure. He had suspected it was a bad idea for to recreate the plate Fenris had worn during his time with Hawke, that seeing and holding something he had treasured so dear during that time might bring back unpleasant memories, or pleasant ones now soiled by more recent happenings.

“I’m sorry, Fenris, I didn’t…I didn’t want to just let Alois make you something, I wanted it to _mean_ —”

Fenris seemed just as confused as Anders had been. “I’m extremely grateful,” he said softly, his eyes rounded out in sympathy. “You need to stop jumping to conclusions.”

The statement cut a bit, but Anders knew it was completely true. Fueled by a near-obsessive desire to please Fenris, one born mostly out of his inaction during Fenris’s abduction and subsequent mistreatment, Anders had shown a tendency to implode when he suspected that something had displeased the elf. He poured his enthusiasm into every aspect of his life, and unfortunately, that included his doubts.

“I know,” he said feebly. “I just…” He paused, looking out the window at the cobblestone street. “I don’t want to cause you any more strife, is all.”

Fenris looked taken aback, too stunned to speak. Anders twisted his hands together in an anxious ball.

“I…I have to make up for what happened in Kirkwall,” he confessed.

Fenris’s black brows knit together, partly obscured by a shaggy lock of white hair. “You don’t have to atone for what Danarius did.”

Anders wanted to protest, and he briefly opened his mouth to do so, before closing it, the words evaporating from his mind. “Perhaps not, but I have to atone for not stopping him.” He looked up at Fenris, who was fixated on his knees, deep in thought. In the daylight, the scars were fresh and ugly, painful reminders of the price of Anders’s cowardice. In his mind, he knew each of the others, from Sebastian to Varric to even Merrill, were equally as guilty of negligence, but it didn’t matter. Anders had prided himself on Justice, on righting wrongs in this world. And yet he stood by and let Fenris be thrown to the wolves.

The observation that Fenris had shifted the blame to Danarius, and not Hawke, also frightened Anders. During their time in Kirkwall, he had seen the way Fenris had adored Hawke, almost to the point of worship—it had been the cause of many of his sleepless, frustrated nights. But if that hero worship, that admiration, was still embedded in Fenris, engrained in him like that lyrium and now the _scars_ , Anders didn’t quite know what he would do.

He wouldn’t broach the subject now, however, and he managed to stay any comments until later that evening, after they had eaten and retired for the night. Fenris had taken up a permanent residence in Anders’s bedroom. Anders didn’t mind—he had plenty of guest rooms if he needed to be alone, and he was sure that in time Fenris would forfeit the room for one of the others. Besides, Anders rarely used the bed, often falling asleep at his desk or on one of the nearby couches, too tired to drag himself all the way to his mattress.

The elf was currently perched on his bed, crouched over the same book as earlier, black brows knotted together in concentration. Anders enjoyed watching him, the furtive motions of his hands as he turned pages, determination in his face, the way he mouthed the words his eyes skimmed on the page. Anders knew Fenris was damn proud of being able to read, and if it not for the fact that Hawke had taught him, Anders would have completely relished in it, too.

Anders himself was seated at his desk, in the small subset of his master bedroom that he used for his main office and study. Papers surrounded him, drafts of a letter he had tried to write many, many times, but always inevitably struggled with. There were crumpled sheets and ones with fat dots of ink on them surrounding his current attempt, which was, up until now, going rather well.

He scratched his quill a few more times on the parchment before absentmindedly placing it in his inkpot and watching Fenris once more. He turned a page, and then refocused once more on the words. Anders felt a slight grin overtake his face.

“Can I say something? And you won’t tear my head off for it?”

Fenris looked up and cocked a brow.

“Hawke was…well, Hawke was an awful man for what he did to you, but he was also a fool.”

“What do you mean?”

“For giving you up. I mean, I would never have done that. You’re too—” Anders stopped himself, a pink blush seeping into his cheeks, and he instantly averted his gaze to the papers on his desk. He snatched his quill once more, and began writing whatever he could think of on the paper before him.

He heard the soft thump of Fenris closing the book. “I’m too…?” he questioned.

“Nothing,” Anders whispered, embarrassed. He wasn’t even sure where the comment had come from, personally, and he had let his mouth think instead of his mind.

Fenris shifted on the bed, dangling his legs over the side. “What did you mean?” he asked, not accusing, but curious.

Anders frowned as he looked up. “Nothing, it’s just….” he paused for a moment, trying to avoid landing himself in any kind of trouble. “You’re too good for what Hawke did to you.”

Fenris raised a brow, skeptical.

“Don’t…read too much into it,” Anders said, resting his face in his palms now, in an effort to hide his face (and the blush) from Fenris’s sight.

“I always thought you hated me,” Fenris said slowly, his voice dropping at the end, in what Anders assumed was…sadness.

He dropped his palms. “What? I…no, that’s not it at all. Sometimes I didn’t like your philosophy on things, or the fact that you were so stubborn, but I never hated you.” Hesitantly, he slowly looked up at Fenris’s face.

Fenris’s green eyes were wrought with something between pain and anger. Anders shut his eyes in regret. Bit by bit, he sensed his own careless words were wedging him and Fenris farther apart.

“Hawke didn’t hate you, either. I don’t…I don’t know why he did what he did, but he didn’t hate you. I think…I think he was scared.”

Fenris’s mouth was set in a hard line. “Hawke wasn’t a coward.”

“Not in battle, but in relationships he was.” Anders was suddenly bitter. He resented Hawke for choosing Fenris over him, and it was something he had never been able to let go of. “Don’t defend him. Not after what he did.”

Fenris glared at him, angry for a long, tense moment, but Anders stood his ground, staring back with equal ferocity, until Fenris’s expression melted into utter regret. He suddenly looked drained, and he quickly retreated to the bed, like a wounded animal.

Anders waited for a long minute before he dropped his quill into his inkpot with a soft _clink_ , rising from his chair and striding over to where Fenris sat on the bed. He sat next to him, not touching him, just a comforting presence beside the elf. Fenris had no tears—Danarius and Hawke had broken him beyond sorrow and lamentation.

“I know you still don’t quite trust me, Fenris,” Anders said. “But despite how I acted back then, I only want the best for you now. I thought today in the carriage showed that.”

“Why?” Fenris hissed, skeptical and almost manic.

 _Because I love you._ The thought burned through Anders’s mind like wildfire in a dry forest, but he couldn’t say it, not now, possibly not ever. He couldn’t admit it, not even to himself. It was just a stray thought, something created from the panic and strife Fenris’s image invoked in him.

“Because I owe you that,” he said instead.

Memories flooded back, of Kirkwall and Hawke and Fenris, of the fateful days before Fenris’s betrayal, of sleepless nights spent pining for Hawke, with his soft black hair that smelled vaguely of sandalwood, but equally, and much more shamefully, for Fenris, with his sharp nose and stern green eyes. He could never, ever admit to Fenris that he had let Hawke give him away because Justice viewed it as halving his distractions, that with Fenris gone, he would only have Hawke to yearn for, and the extra energy could be spent on his manifesto, on preparations and planning.

Just acknowledging it himself made Anders sick to his stomach.

In the week after Fenris’s departure, Anders had remained locked up in his clinic, haunted by rumors that fueled the macabre tangents of his imagination. He had spent hours standing before the door, fully dressed and staff in hand, ready to burst forth and head to the docks, to find a ship to take him directly to Minrathous. But Justice’s voice, like a nagging, whining fly, prevented him from doing so.

And so he had stood and stared but never moved.

But now, cautiously, he extended his arm, putting it around Fenris’s shoulders, offering himself as a presence, as tangible and real as Fenris needed him to be.


End file.
